Every week, two GQ editors will politely joust over something happening in culture, fashion, sports, or, really, anything we can think of that matters. This week, we examine the hyper-referential NBC sitcom, Community.

The Position: Pro

It’s a tricky position, ’cause if you haven’t been on board since the beginning, haven’t registered the details as they’ve layered, it’s kind of a lost cause. Among the many shows that reward viewers for paying close attention, none seems more indulgent in its strange, rollicking, self-conceived history than Community. The on-page dialogue and surface comedy are plenty sharp, but it’s the echoes, the references, the full comprehension and acceptance of itself as a made-up universe, as not-real television (as a world that will tick along on its own clock and by its own rules), that make the whole experience so plain refreshing and enjoyable. There’s just this sure-footedness, this deft control of tone, with which the show brandishes its intelligence and streak of funny; it’s where Community sets itself apart from so many other situational comedies. If any episode were sloppier, more overly reliant on simply being clever, or leaked of its energy, then it would be a different show, a lesser show, maybe even a hateable show. But Community doesn’t slip. Not ever. The jokes skate frictionless from the actors’ mouths; the conceit, from the onset each week, is clear and consistent, and often unprecedented. It’s as though each episode is a spinning plate, kept spinning simultaneously as each new plate is set into motion. So that by the end of season two, you’ve got 49 interdependent entertainments that add up, collectively, to a pretty badass spectacle.

Hating Community is like hating movies. Or, more fairly, hating movies that love other movies. Community so clearly adores filmmakers like Tarantino—the borrowers, the re-appropriators. Mid-reference homage is a thing to adore, rather than scorn. Who are you people who detest a show that is pure pleasure to watch, and certainly pure pleasure to make—whose ardent embrace of all things pop makes you bristle and cry "insufferable!"? I’ve got a hunch that you’re both the kid who hated high school because everyone around you was having more fun and the kid who hated college because you were too cool to admit that you dug any of your classes. In the end, Community is a passion project for creative appreciators of good movies and television. It’s a show that seems to say, in plenty upbeat language, that this is the stuff we like, and we’re betting you might like it, too. If you’re looking for a taste, or better yet the moment when the show first tested its competition-ready stride, check out the Goodfellas episode midway through season one ("Contemporary American Poultry"). It’s not even the slick comedy of the fried-chicken-as-cocaine gambit that sells the parody; it’s the Steadicam, the voiceover, the music cues. They’re the formal tricks that signal showmen who care both about being satisfyingly loyal to the referent and deeply entertaining.

As a final note, let me acknowledge that the above description might very well bring to mind the stuff of AV-club nerddom. But let’s all remember that we’re not talking about sidelined Internet viral videos cut by the ill-lit, curly-haired Tisch freshmen who—surprise!—star in their short films, too. Rather Community’s cast comprises of some of the funniest and best-looking young people working on TV. I’ll say it: It’s the thing that first drew me to the show (besides, ya know, old-man Chevy Chase). So, test it out; it’s okay to like what you see. Come for Donald Glover and Alison Brie; stay for Sergio Leone pastiche.

Advertisement

_Daniel Riley is an Associate Editor at GQ. He is serious about this opinion. _

The Position: Con

People don’t watch Community. It’s among the lowest-rated series on network television. According to Zap2it.com, the show’s season two finale pulled in a 1.5 rating in the 18-49 demographic, AKA the only demo that matters. As a point of comparison, it was nearly beaten in that category by a program on the CW that teenage girls watch called The Vampire Diaries. It’s about vampires. And diaries, I think. And that’s a very small number for a show that leads one of the best-loved and historic comedy blocks in network television history—Thursdays on NBC is hallowed ground. I don’t mean to kick dirt on the freshly-dug gravepit of a show that exudes intelligence and ambition. Because Community does that, weaving references to strands of our favorite cultural ephemera into its Cheers on Campus setting like a patchwork quilt made from ironic tees. I also hate to begrudge anything with cast members who are willing to do things like this, and especially this, for us. Community’s ensemble is one of the most game, gifted, and genetically enticing around. It just isn’t very funny. Though it strains to wink with every reference it makes—from Die Hard to Dungeons and Dragons, Rankin-Bass claymation Christmas specials to former timeslot competitor $h*! My Dad Says, there’s a more systemic issue: The subculture that threatens to vanquish its accumulated good will. Sure, few people are watching, but those who are, are really watching. Too close. And so we’re left with epic interviews like this, a gargantuan 6,000-word QA with creator and showrunner Dan Harmon recounting every minute morsel from the second season. (That interview is actually just part one in a four-part virtual doorstop.) It makes sense. Community is meant to be dissected—so much so that that seems to be its primary function. Early on, Harmon established archetypes for its characters and then began to deconstruct them. Will They or Won’t They plotlines between Jeff and Britta spiderweb into several possible pairings. Troy the jock is now a sensitive naïf. Annie the neurotic goodie-two-shoes is an emerging sexpot. And, well, Chevy Chase is still a dick. But since turning their once-evolving leads into fungible stand-ins for Harmon’s compulsion to circle every gag in red pen, the show has lost its way. "Can you keep up?" it seems to ask every Thursday night. Are you enjoying how I’m acknowledging this thing that you like? Which isn’t the function of TV, and certainly not sitcoms. Those are for laughing. Situational comedy does find itself at something of a crossroads, thanks to the genre-thrashing Louis C.K. has been delivering with Louie, Larry David’s continued misanthropic skewering of manners on Curb Your Enthusiasm, and the sustained reimagining courtesy of the single-camera technicians on The Office and Parks and Recreation. Difference is, those shows can make you ache and squeal and grimace. Community only makes you consult your Netflix queue.

_Sean Fennessey is the Editor of Multimedia Content at _GQ. _He is serious about this opinion. _

Since 1957, GQ has inspired men to look sharper and live smarter with its unparalleled coverage of style, culture, and beyond. From award-winning writing and photography to binge-ready videos to electric live events, GQ meets millions of modern men where they live, creating the moments that create conversations.